Sophie's Secret

“Never.” If anything, the opposite was true. They seemed to view the world as one. They often talked long into the night, leaving them both struggling to get through work the next day. They talked about life and the world. About society and family. And faith. About anything except their other relationships.

Duane had never even heard of Annie.

“How do you feel when you’re with him?”

Sophie pictured Duane sitting on the edge of her bed, putting on his shoes. “Comfortable,” she said. Then, seeing him at her front door, smiling as he said hello, she added, “And energized at the same time. It’s weird, really. It’s like excited peace. If that makes any sense.”

“It sounds like love to me.” Annie pushed her glass aside. “Sophie, you know more than most that sometimes life creates its own definitions,” she said, her voice intense. “Not too many girls celebrate each birthday with a different father.”

Stepfather, Sophie clarified silently. And it hadn’t been every year—sometimes the divorces took longer than expected. Still, it had been often enough.

Duane didn’t know about that, either.

“Nor do they have to be savvy enough to ward off advances from the father in residence by the time they’re thirteen.”

Though she shuddered, Sophie couldn’t let herself dwell on the past. She’d forgiven her mother for her weaknesses a long time ago. And moved on.

Now her father—the real one, the man who’d left before she’d even been old enough to remember him—was another story. Forgiving him was harder. Only a jerk would abandon an innocent child to a whore.

Or maybe it was easier for her to blame a nameless, faceless entity.

“In some ways, you were raising a child—yourself—when you were a child,” Annie continued more softly. “Which puts your maturity on more of an equal level with Duane than your ages would imply.”

She was right. In some ways.

“But you knew all this, didn’t you? Or you wouldn’t have gotten involved with him to begin with.”

Sophie nodded. “Our age difference is only one of many things that are wrong.”

Eyes narrowed, Annie sat back. “He’s not married, is he?”

“No.” Though Sophie couldn’t blame Annie for asking. “He was divorced years ago. Long before I met him.”

“Any kids who hate you because you’re closer to their age than his?”

“Nope. No kids.”

“He’s not an alcoholic, is he? Or abusive?”

“Of course not. Duane’s the most upstanding citizen I’ve ever met. And that’s a big part of the problem.”

“Because he’s a great guy?”

“He’s too good for me.”

“Bullsh—crap.” Red blotches stood out on Annie’s scrubbed cheeks.

“Or, rather, I’m not good enough for him.”

“Stop it. Right now. What’s gotten into you, girl? This isn’t the Sophie I know. The one who had the courage to look life straight in the eye, take it on and win. There isn’t a man alive who’s too good for you.”

Two years ago, while she’d still been celibate, Sophie would have agreed. Eight years ago, she’d have known the words for the lie they’d have been.

“Maybe not, if he were just a man. Trouble is, Duane’s so much more than that.” And before Annie could interject with another diatribe assuring Sophie that no man was more than any other—a reassurance she would love to hear, but that would net nothing—she continued, “He’s running for public office, Annie. For the state senate. He’s got so much energy. So many ideas. He’s smart and savvy, openminded without being easily led. And most important, he’s honest. Arizona—this country—needs him. And he’s a shoo-in to win.”

She’d never met any of his friends. Didn’t know many of their names. She’d never been to the condominium he owned. Or to his law office.

But she knew about his politics.

“And you think you’re somehow going to hurt his chances?”

“I know I would.”

“How so? Because of the age difference?”

“That’s part of it. How responsible is he going to look, at forty-six, squiring around a twentysomething blonde? One who’s involved in the theater, no less? It’s the typical midlife crisis. If nothing else, he’d lose the votes of all the middleaged women who’ve lost their husbands to younger wives.”

“But then, if you’re going on that theory, he might gain votes from all of the men who understand, right?”

“Only those whose vote he’d have had anyway,” Sophie said, having stayed up far too many nights in the past weeks researching twenty years of Arizona voting demographics in an attempt to calm fears she’d only exacerbated. “Men aren’t as likely to cast their vote based on emotions, or personal circumstances.”

“There are plenty of older politicians whose younger wives haven’t kept them from office. There have even been some from Arizona.”

“My age isn’t everything,” Sophie said, sinking into the helplessness that had been sapping so much of her mental energy these days. “My reputation leaves a lot to be desired, as well.” There were other things, but this one Annie knew about. She’d been there.

“You were a college kid, Soph. Lots of coeds get a little wild for a year or two.”

“Not as wild as I did. And most of them stick to guys their own age. Who aren’t married.”

“You were looking for security. To be cared for. Protected.”

“I was acting like my mother’s child.”

“But at the same time, you won a scholarship to one of the nation’s most prestigious universities, from which you graduated with honors. And in a few short years, you’ve made a name for yourself in an industry that is almost predominantly male. Your net worth has got to be more than most middle-class couples when they retire.”

Sophie didn’t discuss her income with anyone—including Duane. But Annie was in the business. She knew what kind of money was involved in production. And she knew how many shows Sophie did.

What she didn’t know was that a good portion of Sophie’s income went to organizations that provided older, sibling-type companions to troubled or lonely kids. And provided after-school facilities to them, as well.

“Have you and Duane talked about any of this?” Annie asked, after too long a silence.

“Some.” The age difference. Her past reputation, which he’d have learned from his friend Will Parsons. And the politics.

“And?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

Chapter Three

“HE ASKED YOU TO MARRY HIM?” Annie squealed, but not so loudly that other patrons looked over at them, thank goodness. “See, he’s not worried at all.”

Sophie didn’t share her friend’s excitement. “He’s asked before.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. Maybe six. Or seven. He knows I’m going to say no.”

But he didn’t know her middle name. And she hadn’t asked his.

She hadn’t asked to see his condo, either.

Duane had his place in her life. Nice. Neat. Clean. Controlled.

“And?” Annie asked again, as their waitress refilled their glasses of tea.

“He’s always relieved when I do.”

“He is? You sure about that?”

“Of course. I’m not alone in my fears, Annie. Duane feels them, too. Why do you think we’ve been seeing each other for two years and you’re only now hearing about him? Other than Will Parsons, he hasn’t told any of his friends, either. And he wouldn’t have told Will except that we see each other in Shelter Valley, which meant Will was going to hear about it anyway.”

“He’s been keeping you a secret?” Annie’s words held accusation.

“We decided together to keep quiet about our friendship.” No one would understand. But their choices suited them. Until they didn’t.

“Do Matt and Phyllis know?”

Like Sophie, Annie had taken several classes with Matt Sheffield—the Montford Performing Arts Center director and instructor who Sophie had once tried to sleep with. Annie knew his wife, Phyllis, too.

“Of course.”

Phyllis, a psychology professor at Montford, had been largely responsible for Sophie’s chance at a healthy life. While Sophie had been busy convincing herself that Matt was in love with her, Phyllis had been diagnosing Sophie’s bulimia.

“So you’re still seeing them as much?”

“Mmm-hmm. We go back and forth with each other almost every day when I’m home. I can’t seem to go much longer than that without seeing the twins.”

“You’ve been here two weeks and haven’t even mentioned Calvin and Clarissa. How are they?”

“Good,” she said, wondering how soon she could excuse herself and go back to her hotel room. She had some serious business to attend to. A head to get under control. Immediately.

And maybe a decision to make? Was her relationship with Duane coming to an end? They’d both known it would have to happen eventually.

Hadn’t they?

“They’re six and a half now, can you believe that?” Sophie said, to continue the innocuous conversation.

“No way!” Annie’s surprise mirrored Sophie’s own. Even seeing the kids so often, it was hard to believe how quickly they were growing up. How quickly life passed. Phyllis had just found out she was pregnant when Sophie had first met her.

Sophie grabbed her digital camera from her purse, clicked in view mode and scrolled through the photos. “Here,” she said, handing the camera to her friend. “That was taken Christmas afternoon.” Only a few weeks ago. The kids, with Sophie in between them, were standing in front of their Christmas tree.

“Clarissa’s a looker already, with those big brown eyes and that long hair.”

“Yeah, she turns heads everywhere she goes. A real princess, but you wouldn’t know it by talking to her,” Sophie said, not that she was proud of the kids or anything. “Phyllis has them both in karate.”

“I’m not surprised after everything Calvin went through.” The boy had been abducted when he was two—by another ex-student of Matt’s. “What happened to that girl? Shelly was her name, right?”

“Yeah, Shelly Monroe.” Sophie had never met the girl, but had a love-hate relationship with her. In some ways, she’d been a clone of the girl—clinging to Matt for security in the aftermath of an abusive childhood. But thankfully, that was where their resemblance ended. “She’s in prison, doing twenty years for an assortment of charges. I missed the day of sentencing so I’m not sure what she was convicted of.”

“Her twelve-year-old son had been killed in a gang shooting, right?”

“Apparently, she was living in a pretty rough area and somehow blamed Matt for all of her unhappiness because he hadn’t saved her from herself. She figured he owed her, and took Matt’s son to replace the one she lost.”

There’d been a car wreck as she’d fled. But other than bruises and a broken arm, Calvin had been okay.

“What about Phyllis’s newfound twin sister—Caroline, wasn’t it? Is she still around?”

“Oh yeah, she and John were over for Christmas dinner along with their three-year-old daughter, Sara, and Caroline’s son, Jesse. He’s twenty and just graduated from Harvard.” When Sophie had told Duane about him later that evening, during their own private holiday celebration at her house, he’d asked too many questions, stopped just short of making an accusation that would have changed the tenor of their relationship. Hard to imagine he’d been jealous of a twenty-year-old kid.

Sophie didn’t want to think about that right now. “Caroline’s this really shy woman from Kentucky, and I thought she was going to melt to the floor when she heard her three-year-old ask for more presents.”

“Kind of like the girl I knew who wanted to sink beneath a front porch one Christmas day after the older man she’d just publicly confessed her love to confessed his love to their pregnant hostess?”

Annie was referring to Sophie and Matt and Phyllis Sheffield before they’d been married. Almost eight years ago. The worst—and best—day of Sophie’s life.

They caught her throwing up the Christmas dinner Phyllis had prepared and Sophie had consumed in humongous quantities.

“Until tonight I hadn’t thrown up once since then,” she said now, softly.

“And you’ve been friends with Duane for two years,” Annie said. “So why now?”

Sophie wasn’t sure. Or didn’t want to be. But she had learned a lot of painful lessons on her road to recovery. The first and foremost being you didn’t hide from anything. Didn’t push anything away. Because issues, problems, really didn’t go. They stayed buried inside you where they could attack from the inside out.

“Duane’s said a few things…I don’t know. I just get the idea he’s worried that if there are hard times, I’ll revert to the…woman I was.”

“What? A bulimic? He might get bronchitis someday, too. So you treat the illness and move on. I don’t—”

“It’s not about the bulimia,” Sophie interrupted. “Or, at least, not really. I think he’s afraid that I’m emotionally weak, and sees the bulimia as evidence of that. But that’s not the part that bothers him. He knows that I’m responsible and would get help if it ever arose again.”

But would he really stand by her? What would Duane say if she called him right now? Told him what had happened tonight? Would he still be at her house tomorrow? As he’d promised during their last intimate call?

“Then what—”

“I think he’s afraid that deep down I get my confidence and self-worth from men. That he can’t trust me to be faithful to him.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He gets really quiet sometimes. Usually when I’ve mentioned talking to some other man. Then I don’t hear from him for a day or two.”

“Do you ask him about it?”

“Of course. He always says nothing was wrong, and he’s got an excuse as to why he didn’t call. They’re usually good excuses.”

“You were never once unfaithful in a relationship.”

“I was never in any real relationships.” Duane was the first. Hard to believe from a woman with her experience. “And, considering how many lovers I’ve had, how can I expect him to see me as anything but a woman who needs multiple men?”

“You haven’t had a lover, other than Duane, since Matt and Phyllis helped you acknowledge the bulimia, have you?” Annie asked.

“No.”

“Does Duane know that?”

“I told him.”

“And?”

“He says he believes me. He says my past is past.”

“But you don’t believe he means it.”

Sophie shrugged. “I wouldn’t blame him if he doubted me.”

Annie watched her. “Is that because you doubt yourself?”

“I know I can be faithful to him.”

“Of course you can. You know your worth now, Soph. You know that it’s not found in some man’s arms. Or in any man’s opinion of you.”

She’d thought so—until the fear of losing Duane had started to take hold of her. She’d seen the writing on the wall—several times—over the past months as Duane’s political backers became more obvious in their intentions to name him as their candidate in the upcoming election.

People would want to know about the man who sought the power to pass laws in their state. The press would start to dig.

Her and Duane’s safe little world would be exposed. Her past would be exposed.

And she’d lose him. Would be completely alone again.

And she’d started to be more concerned about how she looked. Needing to be certain, if she was going to be single again, that she was still attractive.

She didn’t feel attractive.

“So why do I suddenly feel so unworthy? So…ugly?” she asked, a question reminiscent of the olden days. Certainly the Sophie she’d become would never have allowed herself to be so vulnerable.

Another sign of the depths to which she’d sunk?

Annie’s gaze grew shadowed and she leaned forward. “It has nothing to do with the way you look. You couldn’t be ugly if you tried, Soph. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. You always have been. Those long legs and flat stomach are the envy of every dancer on your stages. And your features are classically perfect.”

She liked her nose. The rest was too…this. Too that.

“You have all those things going for you, but it’s never enough,” Annie continued. “You seem to think you have to be physically perfect to be good enough, and that’s a lost cause. No one is perfect. We’re all flawed. And we’re all beautiful, too.

“What matters is what’s inside the package,” Annie said, her eyes softening. “You know that. And you’re beautiful there, Soph. Even more than on the outside. You keep to yourself too much these days, but the you that’s in there still comes out through your work. You know precisely what lights to use, precisely what shadowing or backdrop, what depth, what timing, what colors to make everything onstage look like more than it is. You take the art we work so hard to perform and make it magic.”

“I went to school to learn how to do that.”

“So did a million other people and no one does a show like you do. Even you can’t argue with the amazing success of Sophie Productions. Your shows have heart, depth. They speak to every single sense every single minute, engaging the audience’s full attention. Performers, directors want you for a reason, Soph, and it’s not your great bod.”

“What about Sam Wynn?” Sophie interjected, needing to distance herself a little bit from Annie’s intensity. An intensity that matched the emotions churning inside her.

“He’s a jerk and should be arrested for the way he came on to you.”

Sam wasn’t the only one. He’d happened to be working on a show Annie was in, so her friend knew about that one.

Mostly the advances, the come-ons, didn’t matter to Sophie. She’d learned to take them in stride, to blow them off, years ago. Mostly.

A guy she’d once slept with told her she “exuded.” She couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Couldn’t really even remember what he looked like. But she remembered those words.

“Exuded what?” she’d asked.

He hadn’t been able to tell her.

She’d watched herself over the years, pulled inside herself more and more in an attempt to make sure she didn’t keep doing whatever it was she did. But it seemed to happen anyway.

And so she’d made certain that no one got too close. No one saw all of her.

Duane came closest. Sort of.

And he knew she exuded. He saw whatever it was she missed. He reacted to it.

Not that he’d said so.

But Sophie knew.

Was it also what drew him to her?

Was he, in his own sweet way, just like all the rest?

Sophie didn’t know, but she had a feeling that whatever it was she did around men was something she’d been doing since birth. Inadvertently inviting them, tempting them, to hurt her.

Chapter Four

DUANE GLANCED AT HIS ROLEX, a gift from the other partners in his firm a couple of Christmases ago. Six-fifteen.

The table was set. With her regular dishes and silver, the ones he’d used with her many times in the past. She had china and table linens—he’d been treated to a couple of anniversary celebrations on them—but Duane felt uncomfortable enough about being in Sophie’s place without her. He couldn’t bring himself to look through drawers and cupboards that she hadn’t specifically invited him into.

He’d had the key to her place for over a year—to let himself out those days he had to leave before dawn to get to court in Phoenix, and hadn’t wanted her to have to drag herself out of bed to lock the dead bolt after him. But he’d never been in her small home without her before.

She’d invited him to use the place like his own. To stay there, if he wanted to get out of the city, when she was out of town.

He hadn’t.

After another peek at his watch, he checked the foilwrapped potatoes he’d put in the oven almost an hour before. They were softening nicely.

A glance in the refrigerator assured him that the steaks had stayed right where he’d left them, soaking in his own special marinade recipe in the Ziploc bag on the second shelf. And the salad still looked crisp.

Six-twenty. The table might not look like much—certainly nothing resembling the lavish, something-from-a-magazine settings Sophie had made for them over the past couple of years—but the flowers were noticeable. He’d personally chosen every single bloom—going heavy on the red roses. Chosen the delicately colored, handwoven basket they were in, as well.

And waited at a specialty importer in Phoenix, one of few florists open on Sunday, while they were arranged.

He might be a man—a lawyer and not talented in the ways of his artistically creative lover—but he could still manage to pull together something special.

For Sophie.

Something in the woman made him capable of moving mountains.

For her.

Six-thirty.

Her flight had been scheduled to land in Phoenix at five. If luggage had arrived in a timely fashion, she could be driving up any minute.

And somehow he had to pull this off. This dinner. This life. He wasn’t ready. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. But time wasn’t waiting for him. He might not have what it took to be there for Sophie in the long run, might not have the confidence to squire a young beauty around town and not get jealous when other men paid attention to her. He might not be man enough to keep her interest, her faithfulness, in the years to come, but if he didn’t try, he wasn’t going to have Sophie.

Patting his jacket, feeling for the thickness of the card he’d slipped into the inside pocket, Duane paced for the umpteenth time from the dining area into the living room and back. Straightened the knot in his tie. Now wasn’t the time to ponder things that were out of his control. Things that were probably not worth pondering.

Now was not the time to get himself worked up over what could go wrong.

Now was the time to think about what was.

Sophie Curtis was a nationally acclaimed theatrical producer who’d put herself through college, owned her home and had true friends who stood by her.

She was also the only woman who’d ever been able, or cared enough, to scale his walls and find his heart.

Six-forty. One more glance out the window on his way through the living room.

“This is ridiculous.” His voice, sounding so loud in the silence, startled him.

And reminded him that he needed some tunes. Mood music. Turning on the stereo occupied about ten seconds. He went for the light-rock station that he and Sophie preferred.

Though he’d tried a time or two, he’d not been able to entice her over to his jazz station. She and Jean Luc Ponty had yet to bond.

And if they never did, that was fine. Lots of couples—longtime married, happy couples—had different tastes in music.

Duane slid a hand into his pants pocket, seeking and finding its sole occupant—the ring he’d purchased a week ago, and picked up that afternoon. Turned out jewelers in Phoenix were open even on Sundays. The velvet-lined case, a dead giveaway, was out in his car.

He wanted to surprise her.

Life presented a lot of unanswered questions, but, finding himself at a crossroads that was going to make decisions for him if he waited too long, Duane had done some heavy thinking.

And come up with one sure thing.

He wasn’t ready to tell Sophie Curtis goodbye.

Six forty-five. Noticing the path he was wearing in her freshly vacuumed cream-colored carpet, he sank into the leather chair in front of the fireplace. When she was home, they sat on the love seat.

Unless they were lying in front of the television. Then they used the sofa.

Raising his ankle to his knee, Duane studied the shine on his wingtip shoe. As far as he could tell the day had produced only one smudge.

He tried to care, but couldn’t work up the focus. Where was Sophie?

Would she be as glad to see him as he would be to see her?

Had she missed him as much?

Would she accept the ring?

And was that someone at the front door? Was she looking for her key? Had she lost it in the bottom of her bag? Why hadn’t he heard her car? And why hadn’t she pulled into the garage and come in through the kitchen like she usually did?